Composing Ourselves: Sonnets
about Teaching Composition
on the U.S.-Mexico Border.
By Randy Koch.
Fithian Press, 2001.

Like many other gifted writers, Randy Koch frequently writes about writing (no, sadly, writing about writing about writing is not an indication that I am a gifted writer). Koch writes the "On Writing" column here in LareDOS, in fact. He has also recently published a collection of sonnets about his experiences teaching composition at Laredo Community College. Composing Ourselves is based on an attractive, simple premise: a sonnet for each of the class days during a semester of freshman composition, with some reflective "interludes" now and then in which Koch allows himself a bit of flexibility with the formal constraints of sonnetry.
But, speaking of which, why would Koch submit himself to the formal constraints of sonnetry? What does a verse form popular in Elizabethan England have to do with a writer in Laredo? Why not some free verse on the subject of the composition classroom? Why not short, expository essays on the nature of teaching in Laredo?
As Koch explained when we talked about his collection back in April, he chose sonnets precisely because of their formal limitations. Sonnets are compact (fourteen lines), they traditionally require an introductory statement of a problem or issue (there are plenty of these in the composition classroom), and they usually close with a brief statement (Koch's are couplets), in which the speaker reveals some new perspective on the issue. An example, perhaps, will clarify this; here's one of my favorites:

Day 22: Mercy
Today I recalled being a student,
an undergrad in Dr. Zuckerman's
British lit class, and how a girl, arm bent
and braced on the desk, held her head against
her hand as he lectured on Swift's "A Modest
Proposal." Dr. Zuckerman stood behind
the podium, leaned over the worn text,
and spoke to the book, not us, disinclined
to ask or answer questions. I recall
his old brown suit, stories of his dying
wife, the large forehead, and his critical
eyes when he said the girl's boredom was trying
his patience. "Get out," he said. So today
when Alfredo dozed 'gainst the wall, I let him stay.

Here, the first 12 lines introduce and discuss the issue, the speaker's memory of his own undergraduate experience. At another level, these first lines are about teaching: the speaker's memory of the scene does not, after all, lead him to recall anything about "A Modest Proposal." Instead, he remembers his teacher's "old brown suit," "stories of his dying / wife," his "large forehead." Although Zuckerman's does not sound like a very engaging or effective classroom, the speaker seems here to sympathize with Dr. Zuckerman, especially in these lines that lead up to the closing. And, indeed, in the couplet that ends the poem, we see the new perspective on the issue, the result of his remembrance of Zuckerman: unlike Zuckerman, the speaker chooses to let the sleeping student stay.
Note that when I discuss these poems, I stick to the convention of referring to the speaker as "speaker," and not Koch; like most teachers of English, I want to be careful not to confuse writer with speaker, poet with teacher. I'll admit that it's diffecult not to associate Koch with the speaker of the poem, and the connection is a flattering one, as the speaker in these poems appears to be the kind of composition teacher -- indeed, the kind of teacher of anything -- that students would be lucky to have: he is introspective, adaptive, self-critical, aware.
"Day 22: Mercy" is a good example of this theme in Composing Ourselves, of the continually adaptive process of teaching effectively. In his preface to the collection, Koch writes that "the challenges I faced in classrooms filled with Mexican and Mexican-American students, many of whom learned English as a second language, made me aware of how much I needed to know about teaching students to write." Consider "Day 19: Explaining how to Write a Summary (or Zeal, Boredom, and Tempering Both)":

"Author, title, thesis in the intro;
paragraph by paragraph; don't quote; don't
plagiarize; leave out details; readers won't
understand unless you explain, so show
them how ideas are related; don't
express opinions; assume, even though
I read it, that your reader doesn't know
the article; cite the source; also, don't . . ."
When I catch my breath, Rosalinda's face
is drawn, and Anna cradles her forehead
in one palm. Behind them, Carlos traces
his hand on the desk; then, the pencil lead
snaps. "Too much, right?" I say. Anna smiles. "Try
this," I begin, and for both our sakes, I simplify.

Here the bulk of the sonnet's first 12 lines is the speaker's own rapid-fire summary of summary-writing; he realizes, however, when he pauses for air in line nine, that his own summary is not helping anyone. Koch metaphorically reiterates the ineffectiveness of the approach in lines 10-12: Carlos, bearing down too hard on his pencil, has broken its point. So the speaker returns to the beginning, simplifying things the second time around.
"Day 19" is also a good example of the careful attention Koch gives each of these poems. The title, for example, in its all its wordy length, is an ironic reference to the poem, which is, after all, to address summary. In the fourth line, the speaker instructs his students to "show / them how ideas are related." But the speaker, ironically, is telling them how to write a summary (until the closing couplet, in which he begins anew: "Try / this," we can imagine will lead to an active demonstration of summary-writing).
Beyond this poem's internal nuances and careful, engaging ironies, however, are its connections to other poems in the book -- look again at "Day 22," above. There, "a girl, arm bent / and braced on the desk, held her head against / her hand;" here, in "Day 19," "Anna cradles her forehead / in one palm." While this is, surely, regular imagery from the classroom universe, it's also evidence of Koch's careful composition. The poems in this collections frequently echo themes and phrasings and are clearly of a piece.
This attention to detail is not accidental (students often have a hard time believing this -- easier to imagine Koch divinely inspired, sweating, chain-smoking, turning out entire, perfectly crafted sonnets in fits of midnight frenzy): among the reasons Koch chose this form, he has said, is that sonnets are subject, like all writing, to infinite revision (this is something else many students do not want to believe). Each of these poems began as notes in the notebooks Koch fills at a rate befitting a professional --and then each was slowly crafted, deliberately revised; many were read aloud to others and revised again; Koch was making changes, I would guess, until the book was actually in press, until the glue machine was prepared to bind the leaves.
Finally, as Carlos Flores points out in his excellent introduction to Composing Ourselves, Koch's "depiction of Mexican-American students on the Texas-Mexico border may seem unsympathetic, but it isn't. His honesty is refreshing. His students come alive in his sonnets, and we suffer along with them and their poet-teacher. Both fail, and both learn as they grapple with the border's diction and grammar." I would add that, although some of the best poems here involve the relationship between an Anglo instructor and his Mexican-American students, the poems more generally address some of the universal frustrations of teaching writing. "Day 33: Notes," is a poem that'll temper any instructor's beginning-of-semester optimism (and I'll try not to read it again in August):

I ask who brought note cards and one or two
sources to class today and wait an eight-
count for some response. Then I note a few
vaguely moving heads as if to some faint
music only they hear. "Give me a yes
or no," I say. They smile, and then Michelle
and Juan shake their heads. "What about the rest
of you?" I ask. Others softly say, "No." "Well--"
I start but pause as notes of "Ode to Joy"
chime from the back of the room. "My cell phone.
Sorry, sir," Norma says and stands. "I enjoy
Beethoven, too," I say, "but at home alone."
Today's class lacks rhythm, fluidity;
I try to teach note-taking, but it's all off-key.

But Koch -- or at least his poetic speaker -- remains committed to teaching, to writing, to teaching writing. I'll close with one of his couplets: after 12 lines of agonizing questions about pedagogy, the speaker concludes with an observation that reminds us of this triple commitment:

Each class, each semester these questions arise;
the answers, like sonnets, I continually revise.

(Sean Chadwell is a professor of English at Texas A&M International University.)